


The one where the tarmac scene had a different ending

by BlissfulDetectives



Category: Friends (TV), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Another fic about the famous tarmac scene, But as a f.r.i.e.n.d.s crossover, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Friends dialogue only, His Last Vow alternate ending, M/M, Sherlock/Friends Crossover, The Tarmac Scene (Sherlock), no friends characters are actually included, no moriarty, not Mary friendly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:07:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23672050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlissfulDetectives/pseuds/BlissfulDetectives
Summary: Imagine that heartfelt scene on the tarmac having an alternate ending. Imagine the last episode of series three collaborating with the last ever episode of Friends.
Relationships: Johnlock, Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 23





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (IF YOU'RE HERE FOR ONE OF THESE FANDOMS BUT HAVEN'T SEEN THE OTHER THEN I SUGGEST YOU GO AND WATCH IT BECAUSE YOU WON'T UNDERSTAND THE FIC IF YOU HAVEN'T)!
> 
> Hi everyone! This was just an idea I'd been toying with and ended up throwing together within a few hours. I always liked the thought of a Sherlock/Friends crossover and never came across many so hopefully this will make at least a couple of you smile. As ever, please give kudos/feedback because the most important thing for me with my writing is knowing how to write the next one and knowing what people like.  
> P.S Please stay safe and I hope everyone is doing okay right now (I'm taking fic requests if anyone is going as mad as I am in lockdown then I don't mind trying to ease your suffering with a little oneshot or two! Leave a pairing/prompt in the comments)

"Sherlock's leaving. On a permanent basis. I advise that you come and say your goodbyes. We need-"

John had ended the call after that, not waiting for the rest. Half of him didn't believe Mycroft's words. Didn't want to believe. But as he stood there clenching his mobile in one hand and own fist in another, something sickening was oh-so-slowly beginning to creep its way through his veins - scaring the other half of him into an overwhelming sense of dread.

The sound of the clock ticking in the bedroom had amplified by a hundred and if he could have chosen that moment to lock his body and escape into a mind palace of his own then he would have.

Leaving? Leaving where? He should have asked.

Now? Should've asked that too.

Permanent basis? His mobile pinged and he almost flinched. Almost. Ex soldiers didn't do that sort of thing. His hand shook as he unlocked the passcode but the truth was he couldn't open the message quickly enough.

_Clementine Fields, two miles north of the Diogenes Club. Private runway. Be there in half an hour. MH._

John let out a breath. Then felt himself sway on the spot slightly. He shook his head to rid himself of whatever fear had taken hold of his bones so his brain could scream at his legs to just go.

He almost made it to the front door ready to get his coat when he remembered that he had a wife. That was a thing he'd kept forgetting after Sherlock had bounced back into his life with a French accent and drawn-on moustache. That he couldn't just grab his coat and walk right out of the door and into a taxi to the next crime scene anymore. He had other priorities. A great wife with a great house. A great life. All new and great and so unlike the John Watson he knew.

Truth was, all of those specific parts of his life seemed to pass the Doctor by in one big blur. He could barely picture meeting Mary anymore. An image of Sherlock's bloody corpse on the pavement flashed into his mind instead.

He couldn't picture them become serious enough to move in together. He pictured him and Sherlock playing Cluedo in 221b instead.

He couldn't picture proposing. Sherlock standing over him holding a bottle of wine and wearing a pair of glasses and terrified smile.

Being told he would be a father. Just Sherlock's radiant smile sharing that joy with them both.

He could barely even remember the actual wedding. Just the ache in his heart when Sherlock was no longer there.

He couldn't even remember when he'd stopped remembering. Whether it was when Sherlock slowly started becoming the more relevant person in his life again or when Mary had tried to take that relevance away from him. Whether it was because his memory was becoming bad because he was becoming older or because he just no longer wanted to remember.

Or maybe, John thought, he always remembered and this last five minutes had taken it from his memory. Was the very idea of Sherlock leaving for good diminishing every last thought that didn't include the Detective?

John reached the bottom of the stairs. Then the doorway to the living room. He saw Mary but didn't _see_ her. Saw her speaking but didn't hear.

"Mycroft. We have to go." She must have asked him to clarify more than once because she was now at his side putting her coat on.

"Sherlock. He's leaving. For good." Had he blinked recently? His eyes were stinging.

"Magnussen?" she sounded shocked but John couldn't _feel_ it from her. Not like she could probably feel from him. John imagined her feeling his version of shock like hot pokers impaling her skin. He almost wanted that for her.

But not for the baby. He loved the idea of being a father. Couldn't wait, in fact. But after everything that had happened his utmost wish was that his little girl's mother could be anyone but Mary Morstan.

A wise man once told him that bitterness is a paralytic, but John couldn't help but have such thoughts. He'd told Mary he'd forgiven her at the Holmes' but he just couldn't. He'd tried. And tried. And tried again. But everything she'd done, to him, to Sherlock could never and would never be forgiven.

She'd known how much Sherlock had meant to him before he'd faked his death. Knew how much it had torn John apart. How much of an empty shell of a man he'd become in the year he was alone. He'd told her so much about the clever man in the long coat and shocking blue eyes who threw himself into John's life and turned it upside down. The man who had known everything about him in one fleeting moment - known things that would take anybody who'd ever care to learn decades. The man who stopped him from pulling a trigger that would have ended his life. The man who was everything and then who reduced himself to nothing with one phone call and leap from a rooftop which turned out to instead be a leap of faith.

Yes, Mary had known full well what Sherlock was to John - even to a point where she'd enquired if he was sure that they had been 'just friends'. She knew and yet she still tried to destroy Sherlock.

Destroy John.

And even after all of that Sherlock had still found it in himself to have the emotional capability to kill another human being for her.

For that, it sickened John to even look her in the eye now. She'd destroyed them both and now his best friend and utmost reason for breathing was having to leave because of it.

And so, he would wait until his daughter was born. After that he would leave. With the baby. That was a decision he'd already made from a wheelchair at the end of a long corridor in a carcass with windows and doors.

A carcass with her face on the front of it. And that was exactly what he thought of _her_ as now.

A carcass. With a face.

They were silent in the car. He'd told her where and she drove. She dared not ask anymore questions. She must have felt the tension cutting through the car like knives. His phone never pinged again.

  
It took them less than thirty minutes to get to the destination Mycroft had specified and they were met with one of his cars. And a plane. A small one, meaning that it wasn't fit for many people. No more than twenty. Private - one of Mycroft's.

John felt himself shudder. He gazed ahead of him and could see the older Holmes brother finishing a conversation with Sherlock. His assistant was stood next to him. Andrea, was it? John didn't care about such irrelevancies anymore. Hadn't for a long time.

He saw Mycroft look over Sherlock's shoulder at their arrival and nod to the Detective. Mary's arm linked into his as the man turned and began to walk with Mycroft in tow towards them and John was so repulsed by the movement that he jerked her off and signalled for her to stay there, choosing to meet them half way instead.

Mycroft was looking at John with a strange look in his eye. He began to sweat. He knew what he wanted to say. He could tell by the hard stare he was being given that Mycroft knew it too. Just as he was about to open his mouth, Sherlock did instead.

"As this is likely to be the last conversation I'll have with John Watson, would you mind if we took a moment?"

A look of surprised expectation crossed Mycroft's face. He looked between the two of them, and then back to John. Another knowing stare.

John sighed. Mycroft was right. Now was the time. He would have to enquire how the man even knew and how long for another time.

"So," John began, his throat feeling like shattered glass. "Here we are."

It was another moment before Sherlock spoke directly to him, and then-

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes."

That was not what he'd expected. "Sorry?"

"That's the whole of it - if you're looking for baby names."

John laughed for the absurdity of the remark. Then he almost started to cry from the significance of Sherlock giving him his full name. This was it. Their last conversation. He knew it. Sherlock knew it. And yet Sherlock was talking about his baby. Putting John's family first, again. How had he chosen this moment to realise how truly selfless his best friend was.

He gathers his emotions and tries to stay focused. "We've had a scan - we're pretty sure it's a girl."

But, he thought, maybe having somebody called Sherlock Watson wasn't such a bad idea.... _even if it's not going to be you_.

Then he told himself to stop thinking that way, because as if he was seriously going to let him get on that plane.

But then he takes another look at the man who saved him so many times and falls up short.

He tries to say those all important words but when he next opens his mouth all's he seems to muster up is a pathetic: "I can't think of a single thing to say."

Sherlock laughed but John detected a hint of sadness behind his eyes. "Neither can I."

Another try and another fail. Instead it's: "The game is over." _Hmph._

"The game is never over, John," Sherlock replied sharply. "...but there may be some new players now. That's okay. The East Wind takes us all in the end."

"What's that?"

"A story my brother told me when we were kids. The East Wind - this terrifying force that lays waste to all in its path. It seeks out the unworthy and plucks them from the Earth. That was usually me. He was a rubbish big brother." He added that last part as an attempt of light humour, John guessed when he felt his facial expression slip into that of sorrow.

John decided to forget about confessions for the moment because he knew time was something they both lacked and did he hell want to mess that part up. He searched for a different approach, desperately trying not to give any indication on how much more this conversation was killing him with every second.

"So what about you then? Where are you actually going now?" That was stupid. He noticeably winced, scolding himself for a question he didn't even want to know the answer to.

"Oh, some undercover work in Eastern Europe."

"How long for?"

Sherlock hesitated before answering, seemingly unsure of whether John should know. "Six months, my brother estimates. He's never wrong."

John could feel his lip begin to tremble, so bit the inside of his cheek. He would be dead in six months. That thought alone made him suicidal.

"And then what?" he heard himself ask anyway. But all his focus had gone. He didn't hear what Sherlock said next for he was undone and he didn't have a clue what to do about it.

A few hours passed - which could've been mere seconds but John neither knew nor cared. In which time Sherlock had taken off his glove and stretched out his hand for his best friend to take.

Tears definitely started to prickle in the corners of his eyes at that and he could taste blood from all that cheek biting. But if John had thought the final straw would come in him holding Sherlock's hand for the first and last time, or the clinging for dear life he got from Sherlock, or even the glint in the Detective's ocean blue eyes as he gave a salute to their "best of times" - he would have been very wrong.

No, the final straw came when that extraordinary man - his best friend, partner in crime and absolute everything in this entire world stopped holding his hand and finally let go.

The final straw came in the form of a hand that immediately seemed to go ice cold as soon as the Detective stopped holding it.

It came in the form of one last dazzling smile through mesmerising cupid-bow lips and one last time that John's entire life would walk away from him.

John gritted his teeth and ignited an inferno inside his own bones. Without looking back at his wife or looking forward to Mycroft, he bit every damn bullet that had ever been fired at his body and launched himself forward towards Sherlock's retreating form. Without even falling or barely taking a step, it already felt as if all of the breath had been knocked from him. It only got worse as he said his name.

"Sherlock!" It was like it took the man centuries to turn around so he yelled again. And again. As if his life depended on it. Because it did.

"SHERLOCK!"

He was finally facing him again now, and John staggered those last few mountain-like steps until he was right in front of him. With his hands strained against his knees he struggled for breath. The weight of what he was about to say was almost crippling.

"What? John?" he was looking down at him with a mixture of probable concern for John's health and, was that...terror?

After a few seconds, John mustered up all the strength of a soldier and conjured up any and all amount of air he could. His jaw was in agony from preventing the crying so he just abandoned the whole cheek-biting fiasco and allowed himself to completely and utterly lose it.

"John, what's going on? You're scaring me." Sherlock was fearful and probably for the first time in life was at a loss for what to do. He'd never seen this side of him before.

Despite being able to breathe for a split second, the sudden convergence of tears soon put a stop to that. "Don't go."

"What?"

"Please, please stay with me. I'm so in love with you, please don't go."

"Oh my God." John didn't know who it was who said that...it could have been every single person in Clementine Fields and it could also have been just him. He didn't care. He needed to say this and he needed to say all of it.

"I know, I know I shouldn't have waited til' now to say it but I'm...that was stupid I'm sorry, but I'm telling you now. I love you. Don't get on that plane."

Somewhere in a far-off land, John could hear yelling. It sounded like Mary yelling at him to stop. Like Mycroft yelling to Sherlock that he needed to get on the plane. All hell was breaking loose around them and all's John could see was Sherlock.

That's how it'd always been, really. How he wanted it to always be.

  
John figured that since he couldn't find it in himself to properly stand up he may as well stay hunched. He took both of Sherlock's hands. "Hey. Please tell me you love me."

"I- I have to get on the plane." John's heart nearly started to drown as he felt his best friend try to tug his hands away.

"No you don't." His face was soaking now.

"Yes I do." Sherlock began to cry now. John could see him staring over at Mary like a deer trapped in headlights and knew that was what was preventing Sherlock from saying anything.

He stood upright and put a shaking hand to his best friend's cheek - wiping away the tears there and beckoning for him to look at nothing but into his eyes. "No, you don't."

"They're waiting for me, John. I can't do this right now. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." His hand slipped from John's and he used it to take John's other hand away from his blotchy face.

John had never seen that pale face with eyes so full of colour and emotion and yet his insides felt as if he were burning alive. "Sherlock?"

The man stepped back, his lips trembling and with sobs beginning to escape them. "I'm so sorry." John reached out to him, but he was already backing towards the plane. Finally, with one last heartbreaking look, his best friend ran as fast as he could up the aircraft steps and through the small door at the top. And gone from John's life.


	2. Chapter 2

Never let it be said that Sherlock Holmes had not been forced to make hard decisions. Even though he gave off the aura of being the type of person who always thought of anything and everything before acting, his list of regrets were actually in the thousands. He could think of a few notable examples. Unknowingly insulting Molly. Not reaching Mrs. Hudson before the American agents assaulted her. Putting his parents through all forms of hell with his drug habits. Those were minor regrets - but still make the list all the same. He would always chuckle at the thought of Mycroft's list. Their relationship had never been the emotional sort, and his brother had never expressed any interest in vocalising actions he felt remorseful for - but Sherlock guessed that it was a lot bigger than a mere 'file'. But with all of these minor regrets, the major ones where what kept him awake at night. Not being able to say goodbye to his old dog Redbeard. Having to leave John for two years after faking his suicide. Not telling John _why_. Things that actually made him _ache_. But out of that whole list...of all the things he'd ever done, or probably ever would do for that matter - leaving John stood in the middle of a runway crying after just telling him he was in love with him was by far the hardest thing he had ever done.

Sherlock had almost fallen when he'd stumbled away from John's outstretched fingers. Almost fallen again on his way up the stairs of the plane. He did fall when he got to the seats, collapsing into one by a window. He dared not look out. This was a perfect time to have slipped into the deepest and darkest segment of his mind palace. He did try. But no matter how many times he could feel himself beginning to escape - invisible hands would drag him back out by his curls, forcing him to face reality. He could feel himself shaking and sweating - the ugly warmth of the tears he'd shed on the tarmac tingling the skin at the bottom of his cheeks. The hostess sitting across from him had already stopped trying to talk and was now staring at him with obvious concern. She didn't know anything about the line of cocaine he'd snorted in the restroom of the Diogenes Club ten minutes prior to John and Mary's arrival. Nobody did. Nor did she know about the her husband who had yet to divorce his ex.

Sherlock had needed the drugs. Needed something to smooth over this whole ordeal. The ordeal of leaving. Leaving John. Again. It had really been a good idea at the time. His only way out. But then his best friend had blubbered to him to stay and had confessed his love for him and then it had stopped. As did his breathing and heartbeat. It felt like everything had stopped and he couldn't get anything to work. Because a tiny part of him had actually been expecting something like this to happen. When John had called him back, part of Sherlock knew what he was going to say. And it had terrified him. 

It was true that the drugs enabled him to see everything up close in ways that sobriety just could not, but right now all's the Detective could see was grey. Nothing was in colour. The usual blues and reds of a hostess' uniform was now a dull silver. Everything was dark. His insides were dark. His whole existence was now. Another thing drugs had a tendency to do was make him feel. As in, truly _feel_. His mind was amplified. His thoughts. His ability to observe. But most of all - his emotions. All of them. And at that very moment, the only thing he could feel was this staggering sense of misery. It was a feeling of an utmost unhappiness and suffering that tortured him to his very core. He knew why. Of course he did. It was probably still standing in that same spot outside.

He clutched at his chest and keeled over, curling himself into as much of a ball as he could in the seat he was in. His eyes started to glisten again and he could see the all-grey hostess unbuckling her belt and approaching with a fearful expression. His face must have become murderous, though, for he batted her away and she actually retreated rather quickly. With his knees tucked under his chin, he closed his eyes and let out a long and shaky breath. He told himself to calm down to avoid a panic attack. He'd been prone to them when he was younger and didn't want to revert back to his old ways. Especially now. He instead began to think about what he should do. Then he barked out a laugh without any humour. What could he do? He had taken his brother's offer to die in sixth months. He couldn't back out of it now. He could already hear the plane making its preparations to move.

 _But you need to do something_ , a voice in the depths of his mind said.

 _Oh, so now you're working?_ he spat back internally.

It was right, though. Even in his drug-fuelled mind he just couldn't leave it like this. He was still sweating and shaking and even though the tears had stopped with his eyes most likely red, he felt like he was about to vomit. Forcing it back, he shot back up in his seat, startling the hostess. He paid her no mind and fumbled in his coat pocket for his mobile. The erratic twitching of his fingers added with his hands sweating caused him to lose his grip twice. A frustrated growl escaped his lips. Then, in his nervousness, he proceeded to drop the mobile onto the floor. He almost cried.

The plane was starting to take off now. He ignored the hostess when she asked him if he was alright. He knew what he should do. Knew what he _needed_ to do. But his hands would not stop _shaking_. His breathing sounded like he'd just ran a marathon as he finally got a solid grip on his phone. Unlocking it, he frantically got to John's number and pressed 'Call'.

One ring.

Two rings.

On the third he began biting his fingernails.

On the fourth he let out a cry of despair.

On the fifth he tugged at his curls and was contemplating giving up.

Then on the sixth his eyes flashed when he eventually heard that voice. But then he all but fell back apart when he realised it had instead gone to voicemail.

He sat back on the edge of his seat in defeat. But then in a second he decided to seize the opportunity he'd been given, for he'd been given the amazing ability to say _anything_. Without interruption. So, before the beep could sound, he made sure to focus. Then took the deepest possible breath. He opened his mouth to start talking, and...nothing.

He hadn't even thought about what he would even say. _Idiot_! How would begin or end it? What tone of voice would he use and how long should he talk for? Should he ramble or keep it short? What words should he use? He clenched the phone in his fist and held it against his forehead in frustration. He needed to relax.

 _Just be yourself_ , that voice said.

 _Myself_ , he seethed internally. _Is as high as a kite on cocaine_. The voice said nothing else.

He needed to act. And act now. So, he took hopefully the last deep breath that he would need to take for a lifetime and closed his eyes. If being high aided in his thoughts and feelings then hopefully they would be good for him after all. He highly doubted it.

"John?" It had been only a few seconds after the beep. "It's me. I'm back on the plane and...and I just feel awful." The plane had been in the air for just under five minutes now. He didn't allow himself to think as he carried on talking. "This isn't how I wanted things to end with us. It's just that I wasn't expecting you to shout me back, and then all of a sudden you're there saying all of these things. And...and now I'm just sitting here and thinking of all of the things that I should have said and I didn't." Yet another deep breath. He ran his fingers through his curls. Then clenched his eyes shut. There were tears there again and right now they needed to not be.

"I mean, I didn't even get a chance to tell you that I love you too. Because of course I do-" his voice caught and the tears started to flow then. They cascaded down the Detective's cheeks and wouldn't stop. "I love you John Watson. I'm in love with you."

And at that moment, it was like a shotgun had sounded somewhere in the distance, waking up parts of his brain that the cocaine had pushed into the background. It was as if a live wire had electrocuted the parts in his brain's frontal lobe that were in charge of control and common sense.

"Oh my god. I love you. I love you. What am I doing?" he stared around himself in genuine wonder. Then out of the window where all's he could see were clouds.

 _Oh_.

"I love you! I have to see you! I've got to get off this plane!" he jumped out of his seat again and made for the cockpit.

"Excuse me, Mr. Holmes, please sit down." It was the hostess. Sherlock could see her in all her colours now. Her uniform had actually been grey after all.

"No I need to get off the plane, alright? I need to tell somebody I love them."

"Mr. Holmes I can't let you off the plane, you're going to have to take a seat."

"Urgh, you don't understand!" He was becoming frantic now. He didn't want to push past her but if he had to to get to that cockpit then hell, he would. He never realised he still held his phone to his ear. Grimacing, Sherlock hung up. Then, he made his way to the small metal door despite her protests.

He would get back to Clementine Fields if his life depended on it. He would get back to John.

-

John couldn't find it in himself to go back home with his wife. After he'd slowly slumped back to where she was standing, snivelling and with tears staining his face, he knew he couldn't even attempt it. And not even for her sake. It was for his.

They'd obviously argued in the car. He'd felt lost and too exhausted to talk about his confession, no matter how much she'd pressed him. He'd thought she was even going to crash the car at one point from how much venom she was spitting. The Doctor had told her to stop the car. He'd got out and started walking and she hadn't tried to coax him back in, driving off into the busy 5pm roads of London. He'd proceeded to walk to Baker Street instead of going home, as he'd realised he wasn't too far.

He dared not to think about Sherlock.

About loving him.

Being rejected by him.

Never seeing him again.

What was he supposed to do now?

It had felt like months before he eventually trudged up to the steps of Baker Street. His feet had felt as if they were caked in cement, as if something didn't want him there. Now, stood outside the door with his fist brought up to the wood, he could barely find the strength to knock. The cold air was whipping at his skin like ice. It hurt, and helped him make the choice on whether to go in or walk around aimlessly for a few hours easier.

"John?" Mrs. Hudson's chripy voice greeted him at the door. She was always so pleased to see him. He missed that. She must have seen the tear tracks on his face. "Oh, what's wrong, dear?" She automatically pulls her into a motherly hug. He automatically starts to cry again.

Without even noticing, they'd both somehow made it up the stairs to 221b. She guided him to his chair and he instead chose to collapse into Sherlock's. He was able to smell the other man's scent on it. John tried to sink inside its leather skin.

Mrs. Hudson gently tried to press him for information whilst consoling him, but he could barely hear her over the sound of his own heart-wrenching sobs. Eventually she left, only returning to bring a cup of tea and a few biscuits. He couldn't touch either.

Not ten minutes into him sitting in his Detective's chair does he ruffle into his pocket for his mobile. He would easily have sat slumped in the chair for days without either eating or speaking but some sort of inner instinct was telling him to take it out of his pocket.

Sniffling and trying to stop the tears from continuing, he fumbled with it as he unlocked it.

Almost immediately, he felt his breath hitch. There was a notification for a voicemail from twenty-five minutes prior. From Sherlock.

John didn't believe that anybody alive could have opened that voicemail as hastily as he did. He couldn't explain the emotions he felt as the automated voice told him who the voicemail was from and the time it was recorded. The amount was infinitive.

Shock.

Excitement.

Hope.

Fear.

He heard Sherlock's voice ringing through the mic. Heard the man say his name in a way that mimicked that of a scared child who'd been scolded for doing something wrong. Heard him say how awful he felt.

John was clinging to every word like a man who'd been in a desert for days clung to the idea of finding water. He clung to his phone the same way.

"-didn't even get a chance to tell you that I love you too. Because of course I do-" John almost dropped the phone. And then he held it to his ear and almost allowed it to become a part of his own skin. He thought about actually making it a part of it afterwards.

"I love you John Watson. I'm in love with you."

That was it. That was all's he needed and he was bawling. John had never realised how much he'd wanted to hear those words until the moment he'd found himself on the floor upon hearing them.

"I have to see you! I have to get off the plane!" the crushing sense of joy that had hit John like a bus suddenly started ebbing away again.

 _The plane_.

He'd seen it take off as Mary had driven them away. Then John heard an air hostess tell Sherlock he couldn't leave.

"No," he choked out. " Let him off the plane!" Hearing Sherlock arguing with her was like hearing an execution over the phone. It was like it was happening for him in real time even though he knew it wasn't. A sick feeling slowly seeped into the pit of his stomach and sat there taunting him like an all-ending virus.

 _Sherlock wasn't here_.

"I need to get off the plane, alright - I need to tell somebody I love them!"

"Please!" John begged aloud.

"-can't let you off the plane...going to have to take a seat."

"Urgh, you don't understand!" The beep sounded to indicate the voicemail had ended. It felt like John's life had ended along with it.

"No. No! Oh my God," his eyes were wide as he stared into the phone screen half expecting the voicemail to continue. It didn't, and his insides coiled. "Did he get off the plane? Did he get off the plane!"

"I got off the plane," said a voice from behind him. It was deep. Baritone. A voice that he'd come to know so well that merely hearing it made his knees weak. John would've turned quicker than the speed of light if his knees hadn't done just that. When he eventually did, he saw Sherlock standing in the doorway to his flat - _their_ flat, giving off the presence of a Greek God.

He was smiling tiredly. But also coyly. But most of all - joyfully.

"You got off the plane," John laughed. And laughed. He never thought he'd stop.

But then Sherlock began walking towards him, and John started walking towards him, and he stopped. That smile was the most radiant thing he'd ever seen. The eyes that were paired with it were gleaming with tears and colours of all things beautiful.

John smiled, but then decided not to - deciding to kiss the Detective instead.

Flames ignited inside both of their bodies, engulfing them in a blinding glow. Their hands clung to each other as if to try and prevent themselves from drowning, even though both knew they just might if they didn't come up for air soon. Neither cared. Both men were crying again and neither cared about that either. They instead chose to taste each other's tears. Neither Doctor nor Detective ever wanted to be further apart than the small space currently between them ever again.

"I do love you." Sherlock was finally able to whisper when they broke apart either days or seconds later.

"I love you too. And I'm never letting you go again." And John knew it was a promise he would die before he'd break.

Sherlock smiled again. "Good, because this is where I want to be, okay? I don't want to mess this up." The Detective could never remember being so sincere. This is what he wanted - what he'd always wanted. And he finally had it. He had never been one for any type of relationship. But he'd told himself that before he'd become best friends with John too. It seemed he couldn't keep past promises around the Doctor and that didn't phase him in the slightest. Maybe he was destined to have every type with him.

"Me neither. We are - we're done being stupid." John agreed in both speech and thought whilst stroking the other man's pale face. In everything that ever was and ever would come for them both.

"Okay. You and me. This is it?" That childlike voice was back, almost asking for John's confirmation. The Doctor was surprised he still needed it.

He nodded, knowing he had the goofiest smile on his face. "This is it." He took one of Sherlock's hands and placed it to his lips, kissing each one of his fingers.

Sherlock gazed down in wonder until John got to his thumb. He then ran those fingers through John's short, greying hair whilst smiling the biggest smile yet.

Then, a question sparked John's interest. "Why do you love _me_?" he couldn't actually fathom how someone as perfectly unique and smart could ever love anybody as average as himself. He was genuinely curious and in awe of the fact.

Sherlock laughed as if the Doctor had just asked him what one plus one equalled. But then his face softened and he stroked John's cheek a little more. There were fresh tears in his eyes when he next opened his mouth. "Because you were the only one to call me extraordinary when everybody else called me a freak."

John's lip almost trembled at that. Seeing his best friend seeming so innocent, so unguarded in his arms and knowing that the Detective was allowing himself to feel like that in his presence and his presence only caused John to all but come to pieces.

The man was radiant. Utterly perfect. And John was happy that he could finally admit that to himself as well as say it aloud for all to hear. And do that he damn well would.

For now it was only the two of them and they would both cling to that 'for now' moment for as long as humanly possible. For now, nothing and no one else mattered.


End file.
